Waltz for the Silence
by Squiet
Summary: Black, two sugars—just the way he liked—and then the rest of the night with the short silence in the midst of the waltz, blissful and beautiful. He writes a waltz—but about who? Originally posted on Tumblr.


_**Originally posted on Tumblr, but uploaded here just because. Enjoy :3**_

_Written in response to a prompt by Bariss: "You can't improve sound by having only silence. The problem is to use each at the proper time."_

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It was completely and utterly frustrating. This waltz—this fluid, beautiful waltz—it was moving along smoothly, with the dramatic climaxes and the soft downward action landing the lick on a fluffy cloud, but after that nothing else came to mind but silence. _Silence. _No other note would fit that area, those four beats of rest. However, this was against Sherlock's volition, because this piece wouldn't be complete if it had a single moment of nothing, and it frazzled his mind, throwing papers all over the floor of his mind palace and himself on the wooden chair beside his desk, facing the cackling fireplace.

_Plop. _A cup of coffee appeared at his side, a small hand withdrawing. Looking up at the mirror he found Molly's warm, brown eyes looking back at him. Taking in a big breath, he moved his head, tilting his neck in such a way it nodded ever so slightly. Sniffing inconspicuously, he said, "Thank you, Molly. Black, two sugars—just the way I like it."

"I'll be on my way then." Her house keys jangled in her bag along with her body as she turned around the walk out the door. But Sherlock couldn't resist opening his mouth and letting the words drawl out, "Wait—stay."

Her entire figure froze in place, her long ponytail swishing behind her. He watched as she bit her lower lip, deciding whether or not to stay in his flat.

"For how long?" she asked, with her newfound confidence coating over her mousiness.

He turned around, making eye contact with her. "For the night."

A smirk pushed up onto her lips, forming a sort of uneasiness and urgency to leave. She tilted her head to the right, saying, "It isn't proper for a man and a woman to stay together—alone—in a flat."

Sherlock shook his head, keeping the words "Don't be stupid, Molly" from passing through his mouth. He pointed at his dressing gown-clad self, messy hair and all. "I have extra sleeping wear. John's old bedroom is available and Mrs. Hudson is downstairs."

"She's probably asleep, this time of night."

"I'm not fully incompetent. In fact I'm fully aware that the noise I've been making with my violin has kept the entire street awake, including her."

Molly nodded, looking down at the ground. Sherlock knew, by the exasperated sigh and how she leaned forward that she'd rather spend the night with him than alone in her flat with her cat, a bucket load of crap telly and pizza. This resulted in her giving in, setting her bag on the floor and sitting herself on his armchair, knowing perfectly well that he _would _mind. Shrugging her jacket off, she watched as Sherlock flew out of his chair and back at the spot he had stood, on front of his music stand.

"What are you trying to do?" asked Molly, watching as he held his violin up, ready to play.

"I'm writing a waltz." He replied, his eyes glazing over the beautiful wave of notes sketched onto the papers adorning his stand. This beautiful symphony was unfortunately, incomplete. "Having a few troubles, I admit."

"With what?"

Turning around, his gown swishing about him following the motion, he set his eyes on Molly again. "Silence."

Molly raised an eyebrow, kicking her shoes off. "What about silence?"

"Silence!" he stared at the dastardly empty measure, faint shadows of several notes he had experimented with but with no success in connecting two phrases. "This waltz does not fit well with silence. She's never silent—she's always noise to me. Even if it's the soft steps her feet take or the smart things that spew out of her mouth—she's never silent. I always hear her, I always—"

"Oh!" Molly snickered, interrupting Sherlock's passionate musings. "It's a woman, then?"

He furrowed his eyebrows at her, throwing his violin bow upwards to rest on his shoulder. "Why is it that everyone assumes I like men?"

Molly didn't answer, but instead propped her elbow up on the side of the chair, resting her head on her hand. "Is it that woman? The one who faked her death—the dominatrix?"

Sherlock, in turn, doesn't answer but instead turns toward his music, playing the magnificent notes atop the page, flying through the flat with swiftness and passion, speaking miles of words compared to aloud. Molly became entranced with the thrilling climaxes and the soft falls, but it all came to a halt once Sherlock lifted his bow up.

"This is my problem, Molly. Nothing else fits after this other than a measure of silence."

Molly shook her head. "That's not a problem."

"And how?"

"Silence is never a problem." She lifted her legs onto the chair, making herself comfortable, "Silence in a musical piece is just as important as the most thrilling of melodies."

Sherlock disagreed, "Nothing about her is silent, like I _said, _Molly. Why would I write a piece with silence in place of notes?"

"Because silence adds drama. It keeps the listener on edge—suspense. Leaving them waiting for more. Now why would you flood them with a wave of notes without a break? Where's the heart-falling aspect in that?"

"This isn't about thrill, it's about symbolism. It embodies her."

A well-placed silence was drawn between the two of them. It was after a few moments when Molly asked, softly, "Do you love her?"

Sherlock doesn't answer again, instead playing the notes before and after the silence. "This is impossible."

"_Do you love her?_"

His hands loosened around his bow and his violin, setting his eyes upon the sheets of music. He kept the words in—it was easy to—and quickly maneuvered his way around answering the question. "Convince me that I should keep the silence in." he grabbed his phone and placed it in the slot of which connected to speakers, scrolling down the list.

"What are you doing—"

He hit play, his own, unfinished waltz flowing out of the speakers. Striding towards Molly he held out his hand, his other tucked behind his back. With grace Molly could only wish for, he whisked her away and onto the floor, his hand on hers and the other now making its way onto her waist.

She was pulled closer to him, his rumbling words flowing inside her ears. "Dance with me."

Eyes widening from surprise, Molly placed a hand, slightly shaking, onto his shoulder. She silently wished she was still on the chair, for she could not waltz.

"Follow my lead," he murmured, looking down at his even, planned out steps versus her feet, which were tripping over themselves.

Only the tapping of their feet on the floor and the waltz circling around them were the sounds now, and Molly closed her eyes, lost in the reality she could've only hoped was a dream, feeling herself spin around in Sherlock's arms. After eternity, which honestly couldn't have been a few minutes, Sherlock asked, "If a measure of silence would be alright for this waltz, would only silence be the perfect backdrop for waltzing to?"

Molly shook her head ever so slightly, a little because she didn't want her hair brushing over Sherlock's face. "No."

"Then convince me this silence is alright for the waltz."

Molly took in a deep, shivering breath, letting words flow out of her mouth as she continued to dance, the violin droning on and on. "You were gone for two years. There was this—silence—in the lab, everywhere. No text messages, no lab work, no John. There was this silence in your symphony," a dreamy sigh escaped her mouth, "and it was beautiful. Well-needed, well-placed. If this waltz is about this woman's life, then there must be that perfect silence in there somewhere that you're trying to portray. Maybe her still silence when she's sleeping beside you or I dunno—"

"You're rambling, Molly."

Molly let out a breath and an airy laugh. "What I'm trying to say that you can't have all sound—but I'm not saying all silence will improve that. You just need it in the right place."

Their footsteps stopped when the four measures of silence reached their ears. After a long droning phrase it was the perfect length—perfect, like a deep breath, a sigh, the perfect time as she opened her eyes and stared into his-

"Have you got a name for it?" Molly whispered, her words flying over the beautiful, still silence that still stood in the room, the scratch of the bow and footsteps as Sherlock had stopped the recording on the track.

She felt his lips brush against her ear, and for once, her face didn't turn red and warm from embarrassment—it was from flattery. _Love._

"_Molly's Waltz_."


End file.
